My Stepbrother Waited Three Years For Me

For three damn years, Alonso and I shared a bed, but I never once slept in his master bedroom. Until that one night when things got unexpectedly intense.

I woke up nestled in his arms, letting myself dream things I had no right to.

I worked up the nerve to call him, hoping to ask if we could, you know, actually become a real couple.

But instead of Alonso's voice, Colette's laugh came through the line.

The next day at the promotion meeting, Alonso voted for Colette. It was down to the wire—one vote—and I lost everything. I signed my resignation and left for somewhere far away.

Later, at a gala, someone nodded toward the calm, collected Alonso on stage and joked, "Cecelia must know him pretty well, right? Dude used to be your brother, after all."

I forced a tight smile. "Not really."

Alonso was suddenly right behind me, his voice icy. "Really? Three years and you don't know me that well?"

His words silenced the room instantly. My nails dug into my skin. I barely managed to keep a smile.

"Well... yeah, a while back, I did crash at his... my brother's place for a bit."

Thank God for our messy family ties—they gave me just enough cover for a lame excuse. Alonso didn't add anything else, but I caught the faintest smirk on his lips. He pulled out the chair beside me and sat down all casual.

My spine went rigid, as if a live wire had just jolted through me, even though he didn’t say a word to me.

The others at the table quickly recovered and started chattering away with the big shot in their midst. Me? I was in a daze, completely thrown that Alonso was even here at what I'd thought would be some boring, run-of-the-mill industry summit.

Had I been naive enough to hope he wouldn't show? Or did some twisted part of me actually want to see him again? I honestly couldn't tell.

I made up some excuse and bolted, hiding out in a bathroom stall, completely spaced out.

Our whole "relationship" had been nothing more than three years of me deluding myself.

Then, from outside the stall, two girls started gushing, 'Oh my God, how the hell did they get Alonso Hunter to come? And him and Cecelia...?'

"You don't know? Before Alonso's dad lost his company, he'd remarried Cecelia's mom."

"Wow, Cecelia's got serious connections, being Alonso's sis and all. So why'd she dip from New York to Chicago?"

"Please. Alonso doesn't even acknowledge her."

I was dying for a smoke, but my pack was empty.

The day we had to identify the bodies at the station, I cried disparately.

Alonso didn't say a word, didn't shed a single tear—just pressed his lips into a thin line.

I clutched his sleeve so tight I probably ruined it. "Alonso... we don't have any family left."

He just peeled my fingers off one by one, his words cutting like ice. "Catalina, I'm not your brother."

Catalina.

That was the soft, affectionate name my mother used to call me. Now he was the only person left in the world who still used it, but he wouldn't even give me that.

I splashed cold water on my face, and when I stepped out, there he was—Alonso, leaning against the wall with a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. I froze.

Back in the day, when I was drowning in data and about to snap, Alonso would make me a cup of coffee, then totally deadpan, confiscate my stash of smokes and lighter.

He'd be all stern. "Catalina, nicotine's trash for you. There are way better stress relievers."

Then he'd scoop me up and toss me onto his huge, king-size bed. My face would burn as I reached for his chin, but he'd frown. 'Smoke again, and I'm definitely not kissing you.'

Now he held that cigarette like a pro, totally at ease. He chuckled. "Three years at Misfit, and you're still stuck as a data analyst. Ian hasn't done much for your career, huh?"

I pressed my lips together. "Can I bum a smoke?" My voice came out so hoarse I barely recognized it.

In that dim hallway, Alonso studied me for what felt like forever before he moved in. I took the cigarette he offered, but he kept the lighter out of reach. I hesitated, leaning closer to his hand. A soft click, and a tiny flame flared between us, lighting our faces so close our breaths nearly mixed.

My heart pounded like a drum.

The flame didn't flicker out, but his breath got closer.

For a split second, I swore I saw my own reflection in his cold, clear irises. Then his eyes dropped to my hand, and his whole expression shifted.

In the next heartbeat he yanked back, as if biting down on a curse. "I must be out of my damn mind."

Then he turned and walked away without a backward glance. I looked down at my hand—the tiny ring on my ring finger. Wearing a fake band and claiming I was taken was the easiest way to avoid awkward advances and after-work mixers. I'd kept up the act for three years.

I didn't run after him. Just felt this crushing exhaustion hit me. I lit the cigarette but fumbled it like a total newbie, coughing till tears stung my eyes.

I leaned weakly against the wall, slowly sliding down—until a familiar voice cut through the fog. "Cecelia? Is that really you?"